The king of fire descends once more.

He was so vibrant,
he remembers.

His grass gleamed like crystals.
His trees stood tall, his flowers swayed in the wind.
The dew on his leaves always tasted sweet.

The ash crumbles in the king’s hand.

He was so…. alive.

.

Always has he known,
’tis a burden of the light to live without knowing any warmth but its own.

Perhaps,
’tis also another burden–

to evermore fall in love, with warmth that shall never be his own.

– “The King of Fire” — for Shy.

LL.

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